


Rooted in Catacombs

by pascallionsbox



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Campaign 1 (Critical Role), Character Study, Gen, obligatory angst tag because of the de Rolos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pascallionsbox/pseuds/pascallionsbox
Summary: "The de Rolos live as long as Whitestone lives."Whitestone’s roots run deep below the ground, beneath the bones and catacombs. Specters of the past linger in every corner and shadow of Castle Whitestone. Sometimes, as she walks through the empty halls, Cassandra de Rolo wonders if she died with the rest of them that night after all.
Relationships: Cassandra de Rolo & Kynan Leore, Cassandra de Rolo & Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, Cassandra de Rolo & Salda Tal'Dorei
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Rooted in Catacombs

**Author's Note:**

> I got a bit experimental with the style, I hope it isn't too confusing!

“ _W_ _e are de Rolos. We live as long as Whitestone lives.”_ Cassandra’s father’s words echo through her mind every night, specters of the past lingering in every corner and shadow.

Sometimes, as she walks through the empty halls, she wonders if Cassandra de Rolo died with the rest of them that night.

Whitestone’s roots run deep below the ground, beneath the bones and catacombs. This is where the de Rolos flourish, pulling their strength from the ground and reaching up for Pelor’s light. 

Whatever is left of Cassandra de Rolo wanders through the castle with numb feet. Her dreams (are they dreams?) fit seamlessly into her waking hours. She spends her time gliding through a haze of memories and empty, empty, rooms. Her body spends its nights walking and walking until the morning light begins to peek through the windows. Her hands touch cold doorknobs and her shoes tap against the stone floors, and yet Cassandra isn’t sure if she can feel anything at all. 

The sickly iron tang of blood fills the hallways of Castle Whitestone. Corpses lie slain, blood seeping into the carpet that Whitney and Oliver would race across, giggling after one of their pranks. 

“Hurry, Cass, join us! Run!” They laugh, tugging her along as the indignant shouts of Julius ring after them. She laughs too, following in their footsteps even as their grip on her forearms turn cold and clammy, even as their corpses crumble against each other in front of the dining room doors. She dares not turn around, knowing if she did, she’d see the shambling corpse of her big brother, cherry red blood spilling from a slit on his throat.

“Perhaps the lady is working too hard.” Kynan says to her one morning, breaking a biscuit in halves and nibbling on one. They take their breakfast together now, though Kynan was once too nervous to eat with someone as titled as she. She insisted however, the long empty expanse of the dining room far too crushing to bear alone. The Council is free to join her and enter the castle as they please, though most do not. 

They have homes and families that are alive, after all. They have no time for a traitor like her.

“Perhaps the lady is far too busy to take a break.” Cassandra says calmly with a sip of her tea. 

“Well, I suppose that’s how it goes, isn’t it?” Kynan exhales a tired laugh. He sits across the table from her, breaking his biscuit once again into smaller pieces. His hands never once stop moving. If he’s not breaking his food apart for no reason, he’s turning it over in his hands or quietly tapping his fingers against the table. His constant nervous energy is not at all befitting of a bodyguard for the lady for the castle and yet, she’s glad for it. He’ll have plenty of time to hold still when his body is cold in the ground. For now, it means he is most distinctly alive.

Ludwig used to sit in the seat across from her. He claimed that this way, he was far enough away from Percival and his rants about the inner workings of clocks. Cassandra’s stomach churns at the thought and she sets her cup back down.

“Have you been sleeping, at least?” He asks, despite already knowing the answer. His own eyes are exhausted with heavy bags underneath them. Training under the Pale Guard, he has his own fair share of responsibilities and out of everyone, she especially understands all too well the nightmares Anna Ripley brings with her. Still, a terrible part of her almost envies him for the fact that he never had to meet the Briarwoods themselves.

“Sometimes,” Cassandra confesses, “I don’t know when I’m awake.”

Empress Salda Tal’dorei and her children bring with their ash-covered faces a familiar grief. Cassandra recognizes the way Salda turns her head slightly to the left, mouth open to say something, her face falling slightly before letting her hands drop in her lap when she realizes no one is there. She has the children, however, and the children still have what remains of their innocence. For a little while, some life returns to the empty hallways.

Percy comes home again, smelling of smoke and singed hair. The Tal’dorei family take the aasimar twins in, mending the hole ripped through their family the best they can. They begin to heal in a way she didn't know was possible.

“Hunin, get back here!” Odessa shouts gleefully, chasing after the aasimar boy. The rest of the children tumble after them, shoving and pushing each other around the courtyard. Cassandra watches them, amused from her seat underneath the willow tree.

“Melanie de Rolo, accused of witchcraft and necromancy.” A young Ludwig sits beside her, pointing at a passage in his newest find from the library. He always was particularly fascinated by Whitestone's history. “Isn’t that scary, Cass? Do you think the castle could be haunted?” He asks her with wide eyes and a gap in his front teeth. A few feet away, Gren tackles Kyor to the ground, laughing and kicking up a cloud of dust into the air.

As it clears and settles, she sees Sylas looming above, sword raised. 

“Rise, Cassandra.” His voice is a deep, low growl that sets a numb chill in her bones. “A Briarwood is stronger than this. Pick up your weapon and rise.” Head and heart pounding and shoulder aching from the blow, Cassandra reaches past Ludwig’s ghost for her dropped weapon. At least today, he chose not to bring his terrifying onyx sword. She hates the way its shadows shift and how it stings her blood, weakness seeping into her bones.

“--join me for some tea?” 

She blinks and Sylas's ghost melts away into Salda, a soft smile on her lips. Slowly, she pulls her hand back from where it had been trying to grasp her blade, uncurling her fingers. Leaning against the tree, Cassandra staggers to her feet. Her mouth is dry as she forces a smile. “I’d love to.”

“ _Y_ _ou’ll have plenty to be dusty and old like the rest of us._ ” Her mother used to gently scold her much to Cassandra’s frustration, “ _Go and play! Be a child while you can._ ”

When Salda speaks to her, the older woman looks her straight in the eyes. Sixth in line of her siblings and once the baby of the family, Cassandra's always hated being treated like a child. Hunin and Kyor are not that much younger than her, after all, and they're distinctly children. When she speaks to Salda, she's not sure if she is imagining the older woman's patronizing pity.

Cassandra can't tell if she wants it or not. Part of her wants to run back to the castle and find the ghost of her mother, to lie her head in its lap so it can stroke her hair.

Another part of her is afraid she'll look up and find Lady Briarwood in her mother's place, crooning over Cassandra Briarwood's lovely hair.

No, the child that was Cassandra de Rolo could not have survived those years alone in the castle. That child spends her nights wandering the halls, forever lost. She could not bear to be her any longer.

Salda and her make a habit of talking over tea. Her body still retains the memory of the hours of etiquette lessons, even if she is a pale imitation of what she used to be. The same bloody, trembling hands that took the sword from her brother and murdered Delilah Briarwood now hold a frail teacup so delicately, it's impossibly surreal. Salda's voice carries so much dignity and gravitas, Cassandra feels almost feral next to her.

And yet, despite it all, Salda meets her gaze with level eyes and respectfully smiles at her, the Guardian of Woven Stone. With each conversation, everything starts to feel a little more real.

Percival comes and goes with the breeze, bringing with him haunted blue eyes and an endless stream of refugees caked in blood and dirt. Whitestone hasn’t had this many people in years but the castle is still far too empty. They’re both exhausted but she can’t help but resent him a little. He is as much of a de Rolo as she is, even with venom in both their veins. Cassandra is always the one being left behind in their too-empty family home, putting on a good, obedient act. She’s not like her brother. She can’t pretend their bloodied castle and lineage doesn’t exist, cutting off her roots for flights of fancy. She doesn't come back from her adventures, covered in so much blood that she's a spitting image of Julius. She doesn't dump all her problems on Percival, simply telling him to _figure it out_ even though they're supposed to be doing that _together_ before disappearing again to who knows where.

“When are you going to stay?” She asks him once, trying desperately to keep the resentment out of her wavering voice. She knows he has no other choice, just like her, but still, she clings to his coat, feeling like a horrible child once more. She was never close to him like Julius and Vesper were. Still, her fingers cling to his fraying, singed edges. “I-- Whitestone is heavy, Percy.” 

_The halls are too empty,_ she doesn’t say. _I see ghosts everywhere I look and some days, I can’t tell who’s real and who isn’t. Vesper, Whitney, and Oliver call for me in the night, begging me to come save them but how could I? I couldn’t even save myself._

“I know.” Percy reaches out and gingerly takes her hands. He wears leather gloves and she can’t help but wonder how bloodstained his inventor hands are underneath them. One snowy night, even her own blood dripped from them. “I know. I’m so sorry. Just a little more.”

The day is cold and cloudy as usual and a winter wind whips up around them in front of the castle. His friends, Vox Machina, wait at the bottom of the hill for him, ready for their next journey. Percival’s leaving again. He’s always, _always_ leaving. 

She sees so little of him these days that the shock white of his hair still takes her by surprise. She is far more acquainted with the ghostly memory of Percival with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes, lingering in his workshop even as his body is continents away. The two of them bear the same mark in their hair of treacherous survival and shame. They’re all too similar, tainted and corrupt. Through some cruel twist of fate, it is the two of them that stood in front of the castle this morning. She swallows hard. “It wasn’t supposed to be us.” 

“No." Percy agrees, squeezing her hands. "It wasn’t.” 

“Any of them. Vesper or even Ludwig would do so much better.”

“Yes.” He says simply. He is the only one left who understands her because he remembers but he's _leaving_ her behind again. “And yet, here we are.” 

“Here we are.” She repeats faintly.

Cassandra hasn’t had the chance to get to know this new version of her brother. She’s watched the Rifleman practice with terrible weapons, flinching at the impossibly loud sound they make as they pierce through target after target. The ghost in the workshop only knows how to make harmless gadgets that tick, nothing at all like the weapons of death the half-dead version in front of her wields. 

“Someone has to keep the rest of the de Rolos alive, hm?” He gives her a wry smile, but his gaze is piercing as he meets hers. She takes a shaky breath.

His eyes remind her of her father and Julius, their pride and stubbornness hardening into a steely glint. She wonders if he sees her mother or maybe even Vesper in hers.

"Someone has to."

Despite herself, Cassandra smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you all ever think about how fucked up it is that Cassandra had to live with the Briarwoods in her family home where they killed everyone for years? And even after the Whitestone arc, she was left alone in that big empty castle with no one but her memories and guilt to keep her company? Do you ever think about Cassandra de Rolo, always acting 10 years her senior, finally being forced to grow up all too fast in a single night and wonder if she regrets her impatience? Or does she rise to the occasion and thrive?  
> Because uh, I sure do.  
> Comments are appreciated, thanks for reading!


End file.
